Chapter 1: The 4th Legion

Opening the door of the transport vehicle, he turned around grabbing his sheathed sword where it lay leaning against the seat he once occupied as he clasped the sword and it's belt around his waist with a grace that showed his familiarity with the action.

Walking to the back bed of the vehicle, hoisting up a large backpack that lay there and lowering it down onto the grass next to the wheel.

"Adjutant-cadet" he said gazing at the man behind the wheel. A quick look spared at the mans name tag, "Jacques, thank you for your assistance, I hope to see you amongst our ranks in a year or two."

"Likewise, Esquire Gertai, may God show you the way in the darkness that is ahead of you. Good luck, sir."

Nodding, he gave a quick salute to Jacques. Patting the door to the lightly armored transport, he closed it. Heaving he swung the backpack across his back, it's heavy weight hitting his back without any sign of exertion.

Turning he covered his eyes with his hands, sheltering them from the murderous sun above as he looked out into the distance towards the large camp ahead. Located on a fortified hill, banners and flags danced in the air. Like a peacock spreading it's feathers as a courtship ritual to attract a mate, so did these banners attract the men that called them their colorful cloth home.

Straightening up, instinctively, as he spotted his home in the distance. A large red banner decorated with golden inscriptions on the edges, and in the middle, like a dining plate stood a plain red circle whereupon one could see a a golden ´IV´ on display.

The Fourth Legion.

With a spring in his step he walked towards the camp like a man might walk home at the end of a weary day - with a smile on his face.

***

"Halt, identify yourself" one, of the two armored guards who were mounted upon warhorses said. Hands on their swords as they had spotted him walking towards camp and intercepted him.

Training taking over, he saluted the guards. "Esquire to the 4th Legion, Lieutenant Wymar von Gerati. Reporting for duty, sirs"

The two armored guards, looked at each other. Nodding as one of them removed their hand from the pommel of the sword and started digging about in the satchel attached to the saddle the man sat in. Pulling out a scroll, encased in a waterproof plastic covering and steel case, he opened it and unrolled it in one continuous motion. Quickly his eyes darted down the list as he whispered to himself, finally coming to a stop at a name and a number.

Looking up the man nodded to his fellow warrior before switching his gaze onto Wymar.

"Esquire Wymar, sir, you check out." He said with a relief yet strained smile.

Wymar, stood still, renaming at attention, gazing at the mounted guards - waiting with an expecting look.

Letting a truly relieved smile brace his face, the man replied "Aye, state your identification number, sir."

"Lima, Alpha, Uniform, Victor, Zero, Zero, Five, Three" Wymar recited aloud.

"You're cleared, sir." He said matching the numbers in the scroll and crossing Wymar's name out on the list. Sealing the scroll and putting it away in his satchel while leaning forward on his horse.

"Standing orders are for all legion officers to assemble at their respective unit. You are to ensure those under your command are combat ready. Further, sir, we've been order by the Lord Commander. To reminded that within Camp borders, military regulations are now in effect and you are expected to be armored at all times and ready for combat within 10 minutes." Nodding the man pointed towards a distant area to his fellow guard, before they reoriented their horses.

"Good luck with the expedition, sir. May you come back alive." the guard said as he galloped away intent on catching up with the other guard and not waiting for Wymar's reply.

Staring at the mans receding outline and the trail of dust that lingered behind his path. Wymar shook his head, looking down at his boots. " That makes, what, the fourth person today, to wish me luck, That shit doesn't help with the nerves, fucking foreboding, that is what it is." Kicking at the ground with the tip of his boot, he began walking once more towards the Camp.

***

" Regulation, 413b, `Upon entrance of official legion property, one is to remove dirt from the soles of the boot through hitting the "DSSCP"; the designated steel sole cleaner plate´."

He muttered mockingly under his breath, paraphrasing the regulations phrasing towards the end, as he shamelessly slammed the tips of his boots against the small metal plate that stuck up from the ground. Right outside the entrance of the tent in front of him, as in accordance with regulations.

"Why can't you just write, oh I don't know. Upon entrance, kick this little plate real good. Yes! Smash your toes against that tiny little plate, like it owes you money. Disregard the fact that your toes are made of bloody bones and not a steel alloy and smash it - in order to signal to the people inside of the tent that you are a friendly unit."

Finishing with one boot, he switched to the other " The positive side effect of avoiding getting poked, in a lovingly manner with swords until you have a belly full of steel." Wymar said, as he lifted up his soles looking at them.

"Oh, and additionally it can also clean your soles of dirt and stuff, huh, it's actually really effective, lets make that the main reason for it, don't mention the rest, I'm sure the men will follow what looks like a stupid regulation" Wymar added to his short story, humoring his nonexistent audience, or so he thought. Shocked silly as he was, when he heard the voice echoing out from inside the tent.

"Hey guys, listen! Is that the cock sucking wanker himself I hear? Hey ouch man, what was that for? Oh, sorry. Right, of course I meant to say the Noble, Lieutenant Wymar von Getari, beloved leader of our merry band of misfits?" a man from inside the said stretching out the last few words.

Sighing, Wymar stepped in to be greeted by the usual sight of chaos that greeted him whenever he left momentarily, not here to mop them up into order. His second in command, Vilhelm, whispering furiously to the men strayed about in the tent. Trying, needlessly, to get them to stand up in accordance with regulation.

Towards the right of the tent, with his back against the only wall, wooden as it may be. Sat a large already, fully- bar helmet, armored man. His shield leaning towards to side of his legs and the missing helmet on the small table besides him as the man, Manfred, sat sharpening the bastard sword that lay in his lap. Manfred's eyes meeting his own as the man gave him a barely noticeable nod, which Wymar returned with a nod himself.

"Aye, Private Allan, woe is me, as I am your beloved leader." Wymar said with a solemn face, to the man draped out on the singular couch in the tent, head hung over the armrest. Looking at him, upside down, with a sheepish expression at his superiors unusual grim face.

Bolting up as if a bowstring was released, the man stood at attention and saluted.

"Sorry, I mean, beg your pardon, sir, my apologies" Allan nervously spoke, gulping at the end. Eyes darting around before stopping at a set of armor in the corner of the tent.

"You will be sorry. Once I am done with you, Private Allan." Wymar bellowed, stressing the man's rank.

Running over to the set of armor, like a scared hare, Allan bowed and pointed " Merciful leader, let me assist you in getting your fine armor on, swifter hands than these to assist you, I dare boast you cannot find in the entire Camp." He said holding up his fingers in front of his face, waving them to highlight his point, still bowing as he were.

"Oh you've certainly had plenty of practice getting away from disappointment with your `swift and handy` fingers, have you not Allan. I'd believe him, sir." The large Manfred quipped up, letting out a blusterous laugh.

A flustered beep came from Allan as he jumped into the air, glaring murder at Manfred, his earlier dread for punishment, forgotten. " Yo-yoou"

Sighing, Wymar moved over and sat down at the now vacant couch, leaning back into its cushions with a sound of satisfaction and closing his eyes. Ignoring the bickering of Allan and the silent Manfred.

The curses and swears were coming from one individual only, not quite bickering if there is only one participating is it, Wymar mused.

"You dare sully, the presence of our leader with your dirty jokes, Manfred? I'll report you to Command!"

Report. He heard, opening one of his eyes and locking them onto Allan like a missile locking onto an aircraft. Sighing, once more Wymar sat straight up, clearing his throat to get attention.

"Enough, Allan. Manfred is accurate like always, in predicting when Its all in good fun." The earlier serious tone dropped for a more friendlier one, as he saw Allan look at him like a deer caught in the headlights.

"What? You were pulling my finger? I did that all for nothing? You fucking wanker, I was so comfortable on that couch!"

This time, both he and Manfred laughed. Even his second in command joining on from his seat with a small chuckle.

"What is a bit of jokes between friends?" Wymar replied with a evil smile - that Allan completely missed.

"Hahaa, right? Nothing like a bit of banter between blokes." Allan said with a sigh of relief, plopping down beside him.

"Indeed" he curtly replied " but as you so generously offered, and you have the nimblest fingers in the camp after all, why don't you help me don my armor?" Wymar replied, nodding towards Manfred, who gave him a grin.

Standing up and walking past the frozen Allan, Wymar went towards his armor. Removing his boots and civilian clothes and dressing in the military uniform that goes underneath the gambeson and plate armor.

Finishing dressing, he put on his third layer of socks as Allan recovered.

"What" he said perhaps not having recovered his senses at all.

"You heard me, Allan, the man with the most agile hands in the camp, hurry over here and help me don my armor" he ordered, standing up after having equipped his sabatons as he admired their deadly tapered points that were more akin to an eagles claws than mere points, a privilege, permitted by his status as a Lord Esquire.

"Come on, I don't have all day, Private. That goes for you too, gentlemen, hurry up, armor up and wait. You know the drill."